Ineffable
by Mornwey
Summary: These things really shouldn't be left to humans, no matter how experienced they are...' Zorc is back, and an Angel and a Demon come to Domino to find the person who can stop him...
1. Chapter 1

**Ineffable**

**Summary: These things really shouldn't be left to humans, no matter how experienced they are... Zorc is back, and an angel and a demon come to Domino to find someone who can stop him  
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh/Good Omens crossover  
Pairings: Undecided  
Warnings: None…yet  
Disclaimer: All belongs to Terry Pratchett, Neilan Gaiman, or Kazuki Takahashi. Close as I have come to worshipping Pterry, I still own nothing  
Author's Note: I dedicate this fic to Reecey-boy, whose random insanity and obsession with GO and YGO slash are wholly responsible for this fic (I accept all of the praise but none of the blame)**

**Chapter 1**

The scene is a park, much like any other park. Birds twitter in the branches of trees shorn of leaves by autumn, and ducks quack insistently for scraps of bread on the waters of a murky brown pond. This park is, in fact, St James' Park in London, and in these early morning hours it is almost deserted, save for two figures leaning on a railing by the pond.

"I can't believe we didn't know about this," one of them says, shaking his head incredulously as he tosses a chunk of bread to a duck floating nearby. The duck glares at him with one beady eye as the bread sinks before diving to retrieve it.

The speaker is a young man, tall but slightly built, with long-ish black hair. Even in the dim pre-dawn light he is wearing sunglasses, with a comfortable ease which suggests he is wearing them more from habit than anything else. Despite looking like a successful businessman or something of that ilk, he is in fact in a very different line of work.

The second figure appears older. He has slightly untidy blonde hair and very blue eyes, combining with soft features to create a rather angelic outward appearance. No casual observer could know just how appropriate this comparison is. He is dressed a little shabbily in clothes that were long out of fashion thirty years ago. He has a worried expression himself, but he spares a smile for his harassed-looking companion:

"We can't be everywhere at once, Crowley. That's His job."  
"But why us? Why do we always get involved in these things?"  
"Well, it-"  
"Don't even _think_ of using the word 'ineffable', angel."  
"I wouldn't dream of it."

Our hypothetical observer could draw a great many conclusions from this snatch of conversation, not least that the two were in serious need of psychiatric help. But perhaps it would lead to a more accurate conclusion if said observer knew a little more about the two observées.

It starts with a child.  
In fact, it starts with three children.

Of course the _story_ doesn't start there, but it is as good a place as any to start the explanation. On a dark and decidedly _not_ stormy – sometimes the weather has absolutely no sense of occasion – night almost eighteen years ago, two children were born in a remote country hospital run by an order of nuns. Their parents were very happy with this turn of events, and the story should have ended there. But it didn't…because of a _third_ child, born somewhere very different. Certain higher powers had decided that this child had to be switched with one of the two mentioned above, and they needed someone to do the deed for them. Enter Crowley.

Who was this child, the child unaware that it was taking the place of another, to be raised by people who were not his parents? This child was the Antichrist. And at the age of eleven, this became horribly clear. Nightmares became reality as the end of the world drew nigh.

And who is Crowley, the deceptively charming young man currently deep in a worried discussion with his opposite number in St James' Park? As it happens, he's a demon. The very serpent responsible for the Fall of Man. The light glints on just a hint of fang as he speaks, the sunglasses hiding slitted yellow eyes. But even by demonic standards, he is far from normal. As a matter of fact, he rather likes earth and the people that populate it, and as such he was rather fundamentally opposed to the idea of Armageddon. As was his opposite number and closest friend, Aziraphale, minor angel and field agent for the heavenly powers.

So the two conspired to prevent the end of the world. And to their own surprise as much as anyone else's, they succeeded.

That was seven years ago.

"There's no way we could have known," Aziraphale says, in what is probably meant to be a comforting tone of voice.  
"I know," Crowley sighs, receiving another death glare from the duck as a stray chunk of bread hits it in the side of the head.  
"But still, these things really shouldn't be left to humans, no matter how experienced they are…"  
"I know."  
"He's already breaking free."  
"I _know_, angel."

There is an endless moment of silence until, with a despairing little moan, Crowley buries his head in his hands.

"This is the third time in five thousand years, and we're only just hearing about it. How in the name of heav- hel- Manchester are we supposed to deal with it?"  
The angel sighs and rests a consoling hand on the demon's shoulder; "How does anyone deal with the return of Zorc?"

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**I really, sincerely apologise for not having updated Stolen Innocence yet. I'm trying, but that damn lemon still defeats me. Seriously, it's all written apart from that, and I'll have to rewrite the whole thing if I cut the lemon out. But I'll have it up as soon as possible, I promise!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ineffable**

**Summary: Summary pending  
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh/Good Omens crossover  
Pairings: Undecided  
Warnings: None…yet  
Disclaimer: All belongs to Terry Pratchett, Neilan Gaiman, or Kazuki Takahashi. Close as I have come to worshipping Pterry, I still own nothing  
Author's Note: All the dates in the following chapter (The coup in Bolivia, the founding of Greenpeace) are accurate. See? I _do_ research…occasionally…when I can be bothered…**

**Chapter 2**

The little clock at the bottom corner of the computer screen read 5:26am.

Technically demons didn't need to sleep, but Crowley had gotten into the habit, and it was a hard habit to break. Aziraphale had gone home hours ago, and light was beginning to seep through the gap in the curtains. It was almost twenty-four hours since they had met in the park, and they had spent most of that time searching for anything that would indicate what had happened in the incident with Zorc the year before. That was most likely to be on the internet somewhere, and Crowley – who was more at home with technology – was handling that end of things while Aziraphale was checking history books for any references to the original return and subsequent banishment. Crowley had been rather embarrassed to discover that he had actually been _in_ Egypt at the time, but that was hardly unusual for him. He'd been in Spain during the Spanish Inquisition and had no idea what was going on.

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," he murmured, clicking on a promising-looking link about Shadow Games. The site turned out to be in Japanese, but that wasn't much of a challenge to someone who'd been around when cavemen were still trying to convey in a couple of grunts and gestures the entire depth of the human thought process. All languages were the same if you went back far enough.

He skimmed over the text, scanning for anything that might be useful. His eyes stopped on a picture, narrowing at a figure in the background.

"I know you…" Crowley told the person in the picture thoughtfully. If you'd seen that hairstyle once, there was no way you would _ever_ forget it. The picture was a little blurry, but still unmistakable. He laughed as everything suddenly made sense – apparently they'd been looking for the wrong thing…

**XxXxXxX**

There are bookshops like it all over the world. Despite their smallness, they somehow manage to contain rows upon rows of narrow, twisting shelves, and the very second-hand books are very carefully looked after. They are, in fact, looked after to the point that the owner – invariably a small man in carpet slippers – seems to regard any actual transaction as something coarse and vulgar, and uses every method possible to prevent customers from actually buying anything. The shop itself is a nightmare of topography, a bizarre combination of tiny, winding staircases and more floors than the height could possibly allow that would give MC Escher a headache.

This is the archetypal second-hand bookshop. And the owner – deeply absorbed in a book of Egyptian mythology – is Aziraphale.

The bookshop was as silent as a temple, save for the occasional turning of a page. Then the bell at the door tinkled merrily, signaling the entrance of a potential customer. This was something to be avoided at all costs, and Aziraphale glanced up from his book in mild annoyance.

"I'm sorry, but the sign clearly says that we're close-"  
"It's only me, angel."  
"Oh…come through to the office, then."

Crowley did so, wondering idly what anyone listening might have thought of that exchange. 'Angel' was really just a description in Aziraphale's case, but using the term had earned Crowley some very odd looks, often from complete strangers. Like that Anathema girl…some people had truly filthy minds…

"Any progress?" Aziraphale asked without much hope. To say he was surprised by the response would be rather an understatement.  
"We need to go to Japan."  
"What! Why?"  
"Come _on_, angel. I'll explain on the way…"

**XxXxXxX**

An hour later they were aboard a plane at Heathrow Airport, and Aziraphale was no less confused. Crowley patiently explained it to him for the fourth time.

"So this person knows something."  
"Yes."  
"And he was involved last time."  
"Yes."  
"And the time before that."  
"Yes"  
"You're certain?"  
"For the last time, _yes_, angel."

There was a moment of silence in which the pilot informed them for the seventh time that they _really_ should have fastened their seatbelts by now. Some forty years ago, Crowley had been instrumental in developing a great many of the petty safety rules all large companies enforced. He considered it one of his greater achievements in modern times; along with airline food, cellphone ringtones, and lawyers. It was all down to the Agreement – hammered out more than four thousand years ago over a rather inferior wine somewhere in Persia. The Agreement had been a very sensible arrangement that their respective superiors would have disapproved of greatly had they ever known about it.

It meant, in essence, that the two would leave each other to carry out their various angelic or demonic works in peace, so each could report a great many successes and no actual failures to the Management, while neither side actually made any overall progress. It meant that while Crowley had been arranging a military coup in Bolivia in 1971, Aziraphale had been free to help found Greenpeace. It meant, in the end, that they helped each other out more often than they clashed. That if one was tempting someone to sin, they might as well give the priest on the other side of town that moment of divine ecstasy he'd been in line to get for quite some time now, and vice-versa. It wasn't a great leap from co-operation to friendship.

For some reason, that had _really_ annoyed the Divine and Infernal Powers. Perhaps it scared them somewhat to discover just how well an angel and a demon could work together…

**XxXxXxX**

"Wake up, angel."  
Aziraphale woke with a start; "I was just resting my eyes."  
"Of course," Crowley replied with a certain amused skepticism; "Which is why you were snoring."

They disembarked with the rest of the crowd, but the security guards mysteriously failed to see them as they skirted around the luggage check. It was late at night, but the airport was still packed with people, pushing past each other and fighting for position in the lines. As they left the concourse, a large sign over the main doors declared, in several languages:

'Welcome to Domino, Japan'

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
